The Melody's Making Her Cry
by BroadwayBaggins
Summary: Christine moves with her mother to Lima, Ohio after a tragedy disrupts her world. She joins Glee Club at the encouragement of her cousin, Rachel Berry, not knowing what an impact it will have on her. Kurt/OC friendship, possibly Artie/OC or Sam/OC later.
1. Chapter One: Starting Out on a Journey

Author's Note: All right. This is my first multi-chapter fanfic, and my first foray into Glee fanfiction. I'm very excited, but also pretty nervous, since I don't have a beta yet or anything. Reviews are always welcome, so please be honest!

I own nothing from Glee: They belong to Ryan Murphy and his brilliance. I do, however, own Christine and her mother, Lena. Also, I have no idea what Rachel's dads are named, so I made up my own names for them…hope that's okay. And with that…here we go!

I lean my head against the cool glass of the car window as I watch the barren countryside of the Ohio Turnpike speed by me, every mile marker we pass serving as an effective reminder for the fact that I'm leaving the place I've called home for the last fourteen years. The radio plays almost too softly to be heard, but I'm grateful for it as it's the only thing keeping this six-hour car ride from hell remotely bearable. I glance over to see my mother gripping the steering wheel of her old Toyota like it's some sort of lifeline, her knuckles turning white at their proper positions of ten and two. I open my mouth to say something, but snap it shut immediately when I notice what my own hands are doing. I'm as nervous about driving on this endless stretch of highway as she is—my hands rest on my lap, fingernails digging so relentlessly into my thighs that I can't even feel any pain from them anymore. I dig them out, flexing my fingers to stretch them out a bit and turn towards my mother.

"Are we going to be getting off soon? Remember, Lima's down south, so it's off the turnpike," I say gently as I reach for the map in the glove compartment, the first words that have been spoken in the car since we stopped for lunch in Toledo. Our route has been highlighted in blue marker upon the creased paper, serving to remind me once again of everything I'm leaving behind. My mother doesn't answer, and I have to look at her once again before I notice that she's nodding in response. Her eyes never leave the road.

I sigh. I know exactly why such a drive makes her nervous, and I can't do anything about it. It's why my uncle suggested that flying out would be easier on her, even going so far as to offer to drive up and take us himself in order to spare my mom from the dangers of the highway. But, being my mother, she refused. For all I know, it's an act of defiance, this rejection of any and all help—a way to prove that she's begun to move on somehow, that she's slowly starting to pick up the piece of our old life and put them back together, even though she and I both know it's useless to even try. Sure, we can pretend. We can learn to laugh again, we can even try to forget. But deep down, we know that things aren't going to be the same no matter how hard we try.

I turn away from her again, unable to look at my ghost of a mother for another moment. The car shifts as we get off the Turnpike, turning south towards our destination. I reach for the radio, switching it off. As hard to deal with as the silence is, there's something not quite right about the soft strains of "Teenage Dream" dancing around my ears as we drive. It's strange—I usually love music, and it had been me who had insisted on keeping the radio on when we started our drive this morning. For some reason, it had seemed natural to me, as if the music was compensating for the loss we were both feeling as the miles wore on. The notes and lyrics had stood in for the person we knew was missing, but now, with the loss eating at me more keenly than ever, I can't take it anymore.

My mother glances at me as the noise vanishes, but still says nothing. I give another quiet sigh and turn away from her, leaning my head on my shoulder and closing my eyes.

I've always hated this drive.

Somehow, I manage to fall asleep, and the next thing I know we've stopped moving. My mother gently nudges my shoulder, trying to wake me. "Christine, we're here, sweetie. We're here." Her voice seems tired, the bags under her eyes that have been present for the past month made even more prominent by the stress of the endless drive. I open my eyes slowly, taking off my glasses and rubbing them until the searing tired feeling leaves them for a moment. With my vision still blurry, I look my new surroundings as I fiddle with my glasses in my hands, unwilling to put them on and bring my new life into focus. I can barely make out three figures standing in the driveway my mother has parked in, the cheerful yellow house behind them even more distorted to my eyes. It's an extremely childish thing to do, and I'm almost embarrassed by it. I know these people. They're my family, and I've been to this house more times than I can count. Not putting them into focus won't change any of it, won't change the fact that I'm here. All it'll do is delay the reality of it, but that's not stopping me from doing it anyway.

"Come on, Christine. We've driven all this way."

With a nod, I slide my glasses back onto the bridge of my nose, the world immediately becoming clear before me. I can see the curtains in the windows of the house, the creaky old porch swing. I can see everything now—the few orange and brown leaves desperately clinging to the tree in the front yard, the address written in gold above the whitewashed garage door…and my family.

Mom and I open our doors at the same time, as if each of us are waiting for the other to make the first move. I hop out onto the pavement and my legs buckle a bit beneath me, unused to movement after sitting in one place for so long. I stretch, cringing as various joints and vertebrae crack loudly. I avoid their eyes as I try to reorient myself with solid ground again, taking a deep breath before I turn to them.

Immediately, I am swept up in an embrace so tight I can almost feel my lungs collapsing in on themselves. The arms holding me are thin, but strong enough that I know better than to try to move away before the hug is deemed complete. "Oh my God, Christine," a familiar voice says in my ear. "I'm so, so sorry."

Finally, the hold on me lessens somewhat , allowing me to stand an arm's length away from my captor. "Hi, Rachel," I say quietly.

In front of us, I see my mother is being given the same treatment, her brother Ezekiel—my uncle Zeke—trapping her in a hug so fierce I'm actually afraid he might hurt her. My uncle Jacob waits for his turn, sympathy written plainly across his usually cheerful face. In front of me, Rachel studies me intently, forcing my attention back to her face. "Are you okay?" my cousin asks—probably the most sincere I've ever heard her sound in my entire life.

I should preface this by saying that I've always loved Rachel. As a kid, I looked up to her for her talent and confidence, but mostly for the simple fact that she was older than me by about a year, which made her seasoned and wise in my mind. Every birthday and major holiday we'd get dragged together, usually driving each other crazy in the process but always making up in the end. It was inevitable, really—our parents should have seen it coming. There was Rachel, a natural diva from birth, who wanted all eyes to be on her 24/7. And then there was quiet me, sawing away on a violin while Rachel belted out songs from _Annie_, blending into the very shadows that Rachel always sought to stand out from.

We were family. A crazy, dysfunctional family, to be sure. We were total opposites, and we hated each other for it. But we also loved each other, and would be there for each other no matter what.

I just didn't think that she'd ever need to be there for me like this.


	2. Chapter Two: What I Did For Love

Author's Note: Okay, so I know the first chapter was a little rough, but hopefully this one is better. I ask that you ignore the one major error I can find with the first chapter—I said that Rachel's dad Zeke was the brother of Christine's mother, but that was meant to be brother-in-law, meaning that Christine's father is the actual brother of Zeke. Sorry for the confusion!

"Christine?" Rachel asks me again. I snap out of it and turn back to her, nodding as my uncles join us. "I'm fine."

Oh, that lie. I can't even count how many times I've used it now.

"We're sorry we couldn't make it for the funeral," she says quietly as Uncle Zeke takes his turn crushing me in a hug. I squeak out something that I hope sounds like a noise of understanding as the force of my uncle's embrace threatens to flatten my windpipe. _'Easy there, or there'll be nothing left of me for the last one to attack,' _I think wryly as I'm released. "You have no idea how much we wanted to be there," she continues as Jacob envelopes me in his arms. I return each hug as best I can, fighting the urge to just stand there, statue-like, until the torture is over.

"I mean, it's Daddy's…I mean…"

I turn to her, shocked to see Rachel at a loss for words. "Rach, it's okay. You had rehearsal or something, right? I'm sure…" I pause, swallowing hard before I finish my sentence. "I know my dad would have understood."

Noticing the tension between us, Uncle Zeke suggests that we go inside. I follow, glad for a moment to escape the chilly November air and the U-Haul attached to our car that waits to be unpacked at our new house, wherever that is. Rachel links arms with me as we walk, still talking, as if she's afraid I'm going to burst into tears if she doesn't stop. "It's just, Christine, with Sectionals coming up we've had more rehearsals for Glee Club, and I've been having more private vocal and dance lessons too, since it never hurts to get an extra leg up on the competition like that. I mean, I know that most of the other members won't take the initiative to go the extra mile on their own, so I have to compensate for their laziness. And then there was the question of whether or not such a long car ride would effect my voice negatively or not. I mean, you never know—being stuck for so long in one place, breathing the same dry air for six hours with very little breaks from it…there was just no guarantee that my vocal chords could have escaped that undamaged. But we were so, so sorry that we couldn't make it."

I give a wry smile as we step over the threshold of the door. "You know, Rach, I think you told me the same thing over the phone."

"She did," Uncle Jacob interrupts as he closes the front door behind us, a shadow of the grin I know so well lighting up his face. Rachel looks sheepish. "I just wanted to make sure you understand."

"Of course I do," I assure her. And I do. Sort of. At the very least, it's not as if I haven't heard this excuse from her before. In fact, it's almost all I've ever heard her say. The distance between us might have been large, but that doesn't mean it's the first time Rachel has had to cancel something on me because of theatre. In fact, the words, "I can't, I have rehearsal," have been uttered so much in the Berry family that I gave her a custom T-shirt with those words on it for her twelfth birthday. I wonder if she still has it.

Rachel's still holding onto my hand, and her behavior is seriously starting to freak me out. She's never like this—I didn't even know that Rachel _got_ nervous, or uncomfortable, or anything. At the very least, this is a side that she's never allowed herself to show me before.

"Zeke, thanks so much for everything," my mother says as Uncle Jacob hands her a glass of water, which she grips tightly but doesn't drink. "We won't be a burden to you long, I promise. It's just for a few nights, just until we get everything at the house settled and unpacked. You won't even know we're here-"

Zeke holds up a hand, silencing her. "Lena, don't even worry about it. Stay as long as you need. We've got the guest room all set up for you, and the girls will be just fine in Rachel's room. We're family. This is what we're here for." Even though his voice is calm, I can see that the same lines of worry and hurt etched on my mother's face are now gracing my uncle's as well. _'Sorry.'_

"Come on, let's go get your stuff," Rachel says suddenly. "You can unpack a bit and we'll talk, and then we're going out to dinner. To honor your dad and stuff, and celebrate the fact that you're here now. A 'celebration of life,' Daddy's calling it, since we missed the funeral. It'll be great. And I can brief you on all you need to know about McKinley for when you start on Monday."

My face falls at the thought of school. Since the accident, I had been pulled out of my school back home, amounting to basically a three-week vacation. The idea of being around people my own age—people I don't know—makes my chest constrict painfully. My cousin doesn't seem to notice though, and the next thing I know I'm being pulled back outside.

We grab my backpack and sleeping bag from the trunk of the car, ignoring the myriad other suitcases and boxes piled up around it. I can't ignore them forever, I know, but right now the longer I can pretend to forget their existence, the better. Rachel takes my bag from my hands and swings it over her shoulder, reaching automatically for the sleek black plastic of my violin case.

I shake my head quickly. "No," I tell her, looking down at my feet. "Leave it."

She doesn't get it right away, looking at me quizzically. "But you always-"

"Leave it."

I can feel her eyes burning a hole in the back of my head as we return to the house, but I refuse to acknowledge her unasked questions. We walk silently back inside, making a beeline for the stairs and shutting the door once we reach Rachel's room.

In spite of myself, I smile. _'Good old Rachel.'_ The décor hasn't changed a bit since the last time I was here—in fact, I don't think it's ever been redecorated. The bright yellow and pink almost overwhelms me, making me feel as if I'm trapped inside an Easter egg or something, but I find the familiar colors strangely comforting. She's added a few more Broadway posters since the last time I was here, and the arrangement of her stuffed animals has changed slightly, but otherwise, it's as if I'm ten years old again, sneaking leftovers from Thanksgiving up the stairs to her room, spending the night giggling and listening to music with her as the grown-ups drink wine and chat downstairs. I set my stuff down and collapse onto the bed, stretching out like a cat on the soft fabric of the quilt. She joins me immediately.

"Christine, how are you doing it?"

I open my eyes, looking at her skeptically. "Doing what?"

"Pretending like nothing's happened! I don't know if you remember, but _your dad died._ Three weeks ago. How are you doing it? If anyone were to look at you, they'd think that nothing was wrong at all. I would be falling apart! I'd be a wreck! And you're just…just _sitting there_ and…I don't get it! Aren't you devastated? You and Uncle Dan were so close! And now…it's like you don't even care!"

Leave it to Rachel to leave nothing lost in translation.

I sit up, turning to face her. "I don't know."

The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them—before I really have time to think about how exactly I'm coping with it all. But as I speak them, I realize how true they are. I'm as clueless as Rachel as to why I'm not completely falling apart. Sure, I've cried over it. According to my 'emergency therapist' that mom hired, I've gone through almost all five stage of grief—all that's really left is acceptance. I, of course, think that's bull. I have accepted it…haven't I? I wouldn't be so calm about it if I haven't accepted the fact that he's never going to stand at my bedroom door listening to me play my violin ever again, never going to quote M*A*S*H* with me at the breakfast table, never going to kiss me goodnight or walk me down the aisle. One minute he was there, congratulating me on my orchestra concert, assuring me that he'd be fine driving home with mom, telling me that I could go hang out with my friends to celebrate as long as I got home at a decent hour, and the next…he was gone.

Forever.

'I've accepted that.'

But if I have…then why do I still wake up screaming every night, wishing he would be there? Why do I still keep replaying those scenes in my mind, wondering if things would have been different if I'd gone home with them after all? Why do I look around every time I laugh at something, as if he's going to be there laughing with me? Why have I stopped playing my violin entirely, if only because he loved to hear me play so much?

"I really don't," I say after a moment, finally finding my voice. "I wish I could tell you. It's not as if I'm not sad—I am. You have no idea how upset I was, Rach. I don't even remember what happened when I got the phone call. My friends said I almost fainted, but I don't remember it—all I remember is getting to the hospital and not being able to find where they put him, and then my mom showed up, and the doctors were trying to tell us that they'd done all they could, and…" Before I can stop it, tears are streaming full-force down my face, and Rachel's hugging me again, soothing me and telling me it's okay and that she's sorry she brought it up in the first place. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but is there an almost satisfied tone in my cousin's voice? Is she happy that she finally made me take down that stupid façade I've put on since the moment I got here—the one I've tried to keep since the moment I heard the doctor utter the words "We did all we could?"

Probably not. But I do know that Rachel loves being right. It's one of the things we have in common.

I don't know how long we sit there before we hear a gentle knock on the door. "Girls?" It's Uncle Jake. "You should get ready, we're leaving soon. Meet us in the garage in fifteen minutes?"

"Okay, Dad," Rachel calls back before cringing, looking at me like I'm going to slap her or something. "Sorry,"

I sniff, pushing my hair back from my face. "You didn't do anything wrong." I wipe the tears off my face, my hands feeling like blocks of ice against my skin. "How bad is it?" I ask her, meeting her eyes."

"Pretty bad," she admits. "But I can fix it. Come on." She leads me to the bathroom, where I wash my face as per her instructions and stand still while she applies the tiniest bit of makeup to cover up my puffy, red face. I watch our reflection in the mirror. Despite not being biologically related, Rachel and I do look alike. We both have brown hair, although mine's darker. Both of us have deep brown eyes, but I've always been jealous of her for never needing glasses the way I do. Rachel's got about an inch on me, height-wise, which is saying something. I'm paler than she is, most likely due to my mom's Irish ancestry, but if you think about it, we're not really that different. She follows my gaze and meets my eyes in the mirror, her hand on my shoulder as she hands me my glasses again. "Why didn't you want to take your violin inside?" she asks, lowering her voice.

I put on my glasses, turning away from her. "I don't play it anymore."

"What?" Rachel cries. "Christine, you love the violin! It's your baby! Why…" She cuts herself off, apparently realizing what would want to make me give up what has been my equivalent to Rachel's obsession with singing. She lowers her voice, understanding replacing the tone of shock. "Christine, you shouldn't give up your music. It can be very therapeutic, you know, and your dad would have-"

"Girls! We're leaving in two minutes! Claim a seat now or get left behind!"

I stand up, grabbing my jacket from it's spot on the doorknob where I left it. Rachel follows behind, stopping me just before I exit the room. "If you're really adamant about giving up your violin, that's no reason to abandon music altogether. I have an idea. We'll talk later. Now let's go, before they really do decide to leave without us."

She breezes past me out the door and down the stairs. I watch her retreating figure warily. I love my cousin, I really do. But I've learned enough in fourteen years with her to know to always take her 'ideas' with a grain of salt.


End file.
